Am I in love? I fear I am. Woe to Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp. Weaponless, he can only want but never have.
Abed, I dream the spell is over. I am naked in the softly falling rain, my wrists and ankles bound. A slender woman haunts the shadows. Though tied and helpless, I am overcome with desire for her. Later I awake with — is it possible? is it real? — a tumescent penis? As sleep overcomes me again, I am not sure whether this phallus erec-tus is only a chimera sent to mock me.
Good morning, Kimberley. You look weary on this nice sunny day.
Morning, Dr. Kropinski. Ouch. Tied one on yesterday. After the show we all went to Bridge’s. I guess we were celebrating.
Over the success of the show, yes?
Yeah, we’re on the front page.
I saw that.
What do they call themselves? Citizens for Decency, something like that.
You do not worry the play will be closed down?
By those morons? Bunch of dweebs with their picket signs. But we drank a lot of toasts to them — we’re getting sold-out houses. And guess who I keep seeing in the audience? Twice I spotted him trying to look small in one of the back rows as we were taking our bows. Professor Jonathan O’Donnell. Creepy, huh?
How odd.
Scary, kind of. Everyone else was applauding. . but he looked … I don’t know. Depressed. What kind of stuff does he think he’s pulling anyway? Probably trying to put a hex on. Well, what did you think of the play?
I thought you were very good.
Thank you.
You received the best laughs.
A little racy, though, hey? What did your wife think?
I am afraid Penny found it too rich for her blood. Well, she is a little conservative, yes? An old-fashioned Jewish upbringing. .
Oh, dear, I had one of those, too, only Catholic. All that’s left is the religious guilt, I’m afraid. Well, my significant other hasn’t seen it yet, though he read that prissy review where they called it obscene — right next to our pictures. Was he ever torqued. I’m not going back to his place until he apologizes.
You have been staying in your apartment?
I don’t need all the distractions. The play runs another week, and then I’ve only got four or five days to get ready for the trial, which I don’t think I’m up for — I wish it would just go away. I’m going to come out looking like. . I don’t know.
Why?
Oh, Pat Blueman dropped on me that apparently I did some cocaine that night I was at O’Donnell’s house. Cocaine. .
I snorted some in the rec room with Egan Chornicky and that Paula woman. I must have been fairly loaded, I don’t do coke. Maybe twice in my life. I guess I just kept quiet because I didn’t dream it would come out. But Paula spilled the beans to Patricia, who gave me royal shit for not telling her, and the defence knows about it.
Did this drug affect you?
Not really. Well, maybe I got a little wild and crazy — it’s after that I changed into O’Donnell’s suit.
And now this may come out in court?
Remy — he’ll have another wig-out. And it could make it tough to get articles. Maybe I’ll become a star of stage and screen instead. There’s a chance the play will move to Toronto this fall. . Oh, hey, we may have the goods on O’Donnell now. Pat Blueman. . can I tell you a secret?
Everything you tell me is secret, yes?
I called her, got her to come down and join us last night, at Bridge’s. She’s so lonely, you know — I try to get her out where she can meet eligibles. Well, she was in such a good mood. O’Donnell — she made me swear not to tell anyone — but the guy is right out of the Marquis de Sade. She has a witness under subpoena with whom Jonathan had this ritual, she calls it, where he tied her up and painted her before getting it on. In her own acrylics, or whatever — she’s an artist. Dominique the dominatrix.
Oh, my. How did they find her?
Patricia wouldn’t say. I always knew there was a sicko psyche hiding inside Jonathan. I could tell it just looking into his eyes. They were always so sad. Hiding some deep, dark, horrible secret. I mean, I’m sort of modern sexually, I like to do different things. I like a little theatre with it, maybe, but not kink- we’re talking pre-Remy here, he’s pretty traditional about sex. God, I just thought — maybe his defence is going to be that he was so drunk he thought I was Dominique.
I think that is not likely.
I want to see his expression when she walks into court. What’s the deal with this bondage stuff, Dr. Kropinski? Why do people do it?
I have not seen much of the material on this. But involved I think are scripted rituals of whipping, spanking, and so on, interspersed with episodes of tenderness and loving. It is clearly so that some people — mostly men, I think — seek their sexual stimulation that way. An unhealthy compulsion either to dominate or play the slave. I have seen reports about normal persons, intelligent, well born, who have gone into therapy for this. Significant antecedents like childhood trauma will play some role, yes? But it is not always easy to trace the connection. It may have something to do with the buttock fetish: Gesasserotik, it is called. Fetishes usually come from a submerged sexual impression from early childhood, and so I think there is a similar root for bondage practices.
It’s basically a form of play, though, right? Theatre. I mean, you see all these ads. Women who offer a service — discipline care providers. So there must be this need. I guess it’s better some bozo gets his rocks off by paddling someone’s bum than going home all repressed and knocking his wife’s teeth out. Anyway. .
Why are you laughing?
Oh, I was just remembering last night. Patricia had a few, and did this hilarious imitation of Arthur Beauchamp. Snapping his suspenders and reciting from the Merchant of Venice, trying to wring tears from the jury. “Mercy falleth as the gentle rain from heaven.” Something like that. I guess we should get to work.
All right.
I’ve had more dreams. I just wish they’d stop.
I would prefer to see them come out.
I know. Healthier for me if I could just spew it out. I get this gaggy feeling, this nausea, I’m afraid that if I think about it I’ll throw up.
All your dreams seem to end with you cowering against a wall, then feeling. .
I can’t talk about it. I can’t.
Okay. Tell me, have you thought any more about being hypnotized?
I guess I’m afraid of losing control, getting hysterical. Do you not think you need to remember? After the play is over, you have a four-day period before the trial?
Yes.
And when do you take the witness stand?
Next Wednesday, I think.
What about this weekend? You could come for dinner on Saturday — I find evenings are better, and you will be more relaxed in a home setting.
And I’m to get hypnotized? Do you put me to sleep?
Actually, I may bring you awake.
The charter flutters into Beauchamp Bay and chugs towards the little dock where I stand with Margaret, who is smiling but tense. She is smartly dressed, a fawn suit, her skirt hemmed daringly high. I am more casual, the more bohemian of the two in my denim and sandals. All my suits are at the cleaners in Vancouver, so I am accepting Wally Sprogue at his word there will be no dress code. And why not make a statement? Why not say I am no longer a slave to the conventions of the city?
“You’re sure he can get that machine up off the water again?” says Margaret, who has admitted to a fear of flying. She has never been in a small airplane.
I am still too unnerved to confess my feelings for her. There exists an abiding fear of rejection. And I simply do not know how to start: I do not remember how to do this. Assuming I once knew.